


Undramatic

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft’s solution to the threat of discovery, is, like all his other solutions, particularly anticlimactic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undramatic

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

“... he has no energy or ambition.”

Mycroft’s voice holds an absoluteness that brooks no argument. That he hangs up after his pronouncement only adds to the effect. It’s something that Sherlock tells himself he would laugh about if he had a care to. Mycroft is always so absolute in his judgements against the world, so determined that he will forge reality as he wills it.

“If you’re awake enough to laugh at me then I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast.”

Sherlock sits up in bed, making deliberately slow progress in untangling himself from the bedcovers. They’re in a hotel of course, a very discreet, very expensive hotel in the centre of London. A place where the staff wouldn’t dare breathe a word about a senior civil servant’s dalliance for the night. Mycroft always sees to the arrangements and all Sherlock has to do is arrive at the specified time.

“You know what I want, but I suppose breakfast will have to do.”

Mycroft smirks. If he doesn’t get away now, in the early hours, he knows that he never will. It won’t be such a chore but it will mean another day wasted, and for every day that he conveniently vanishes, they come closer to discovery. Already, he’s aware that there are other agencies moving, watchful eyes following the both of them. What began as courtesy surveillance is slowly becoming far too bold.

“Sherlock...”

There’s little to say. It’s nothing that he hasn’t thought before. It doesn’t need to be said. Not that they tend to say very much to each other when they meet like this. What they do say is nonsense, sheer idiocy. Between the two of them they manage to fill up the entire room with pointless endearments, the nonsense talk of lovers, the sort of pedestrian hubris that they normally both so despise.

“Be more careful? Really, Mycroft, if we’re being stalked by someone, somewhere, for some hitherto unknown reason, surely you can just have them killed.”  
“Usually, yes.”  
“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes gleam.

Mycroft’s lips twitch. Sherlock is always far too thrilled at the idea of Mycroft killing for him. It’s enough to speak of some kind of mental aberration on both their parts. Not that Mycroft does the deed personally these days, not often. Though it is, always, tremendously satisfying when he does find the time to apply himself. The snapping of bone, the sudden heavy weight of a limp body, the startled look in slightless eyes: Mycroft knows that he enjoys it all far too much. Which is why he doesn’t indulge himself often. He enjoys dealing out death as much as Sherlock enjoys mutilating corpses.

“Then have them killed.” Sherlock lets his head fall back onto the pillow, the picture of elegant disinterest.  
“Not this time.”  
“Why? You don’t normally play with your food.”

Mycroft snorts ungraciously. Usually, normally, he’s perfectly efficient. He doesn’t have the time or patience for the silly games that people play. All that matters is that the job be done, swiftly and without fuss. His ego isn’t nearly so fragile that he needs the whole world to know how ruthless he really is.

“She would be somewhat difficult to remove.”  
“She?”

Now he’s just playing with fire. Sherlock doesn’t need to know any of the details or he’ll try to implement some foolish solution of his own. Mycroft is perfectly capable of managing the situation by himself, and he certainly doesn’t want to place Sherlock in a position where he might possibly come to harm.

“Mycroft.”  
“My apologies, darling. I seem to be experiencing some kind of verbal diarrhoea. Do please ignore anything further that I have to say on the matter.”  
“What is it you’re not telling me?” Sherlock bites out, furious.

Too much: Sherlock answers the question already in his own mind. Whatever it is, it’s something that’s gnawing at the edge of Mycroft’s self-control, which always bodes ill. Mycroft never loses control. Ever. Which means that this latest threat isn’t just the usual nonsense of political rivals trying to gain some desperate leverage over the United Kingdom’s éminence grise. Sherlock clenches his teeth.

“I..” Mycroft breaks off with a laugh.  
“You’re enjoying this.”  
“Of course.”

Sherlock throws an arm over his eyes. Of course Mycroft is enjoying the challenge. Normally his opponents are laughably ill prepared for the conflict, but this time that doesn’t appear to be the case. Mycroft will enjoy the battle, will revel in it and nothing Sherlock can do or say will stop him.

“Who is she, Mycroft? At least give me a name so that I can put a bullet in her brain if you lose.”

Mycroft stands over the bed, looking down at his brother’s prone form. He could of course step things up a notch and reveal the requested information, but somehow he doesn’t think Sherlock will find it quite as amusing as Mycroft himself does. The game isn’t about preserving their scandalous liaison after all, but rather making sure to mask all evidence of it.

“No, my love, I don’t think I will.”

The game, such as it is, is far too perfect as it stands. Sherlock need not trouble himself over it. Of course if Mycroft does lose then he will deserve the disgrace that will follow, but the fact that he is being challenged, like this, in this last, sacrosanct, arena fills him with a diabolical glee. Never before has he thought himself quite so perfectly adept at what he does.

“What happened to your notion of failsafes?” Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft acknowledges that usually he would employ them but not this time. This is the final battleground, the final test of his worth. If he succeeds then he will be a worthy successor: if he fails they’ll just burry the pieces. He won’t fail of course. He can’t. Not when there’s so much at stake...

“ _Of course_.”  
“Mycroft?”  
“Darling, hush, I... need to make a phonecall.”

Sherlock sits up, confusion written clearly on his face as Mycroft perches on the edge of the bed and pulls out his phone.

“Mycroft, what-“  
“Hello, yes, I’ll hold.”  
“Who-“  
“Mummy! Yes, yes, quite well. I was wondering, I’m in a bit of a bind here, could you, would you mind- Well, _yes_ , mummy, it was silly of me but- Of course. I’ll just put Sherlock on the line.”

Sherlock stares at Mycroft’s mobile like he’s expecting it to explode any second, refusing to reach for it.

“No, he doesn’t look very well, mummy. I’ll just past that on, shall I? Of course. How lovely! I’m sure we’re both free that weekend. Sherlock does so miss Surrey after all.”

Mycroft hangs up, looking all together too pleased with himself.

“Mycroft... did you just- does...?”  
“Yes, Sherlock, mummy knows.”

Sherlock’s hands clench the bedsheets so tightly that Mycroft worries that he’ll injure himself.

“It’s quite alright, darling. She doesn’t mind.”  
“What?”

Mycroft gently disentangles Sherlock’s hands from the covers, taking them carefully in his own.

“That was the test. A double-bluff if you will. She knew: I had to find a solution to that riddle. I could keep hiding, erasing the evidence as we went along but that would mean giving in to the fear that we’d been discovered. That eventually I wouldn’t be able to erase enough of it and she’d have the key to our undoing.”  
“But you just...”  
“I called her bluff. She could expose me, expose us, and I’d lose everything but so would she. Everything she’d worked for, all these years, an entire legacy. But she couldn’t entrust that legacy to someone commanded by fear, by their own terror at their weaknesses.”

Sherlock squeezes Mycroft’s hands, pressing his eyes shut as he does so.

“I don’t... I can’t even... Good God, Mycroft! That woman is our mother!”  
“Of course she is. Who else could possibly-“

The rest of what Mycroft is going to say is cut off by Sherlock throwing himself against Mycroft and pressing their mouths together.

 

Later, when Mycroft has given in to the loss of another day and sleep seems like the most sensible option, he ponders the absurdity of it all. Then he dismisses that train of thought as entirely irrelevant.

“Do you have any idea how fucked up all of this is?” Sherlock mutters softly, against Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft does have a fair idea but he ignores the question anyway. It’s hardly as if it requires an answer.


End file.
